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“Smells good,” Father booms as he steps into the room. He looks around before shouting, “Line up, kids.”
My brothers are all nearby, and in seconds, we’re standing in a row. He calls us kids, but Krystof is already eighteen. I know it bothers Maxim, too, because at seventeen, he feels he’s a man. I think Father purposely presses him to see if he’ll snap. At ten and eleven, me and Dmitri stand as the youngest at the end of the line. Anya stands off to the side, waiting with her head down. She’s only a few years older than Krystof, but as Father’s wife, she isn’t subject to the public inspection. Though I’ve heard things through the walls that tell me she doesn’t go without her own critiques.
It feels strange to be standing here without Alexei and Artur.
I resist the urge to squirm, to twist my hands as Father walks down the line to inspect us. It’s a nightly ritual we all despise but one I’m used to. More often than not, it’s at this time I’m called out for some kind of indiscretion. A beating and no dinner are common punishments, hence why I go hungry a lot.
He steps up to Krystof who stands a touch straighter at the attention.
“What did you accomplish today?” Father asks him.
“Finished chopping the last rounds with Maxim and stored them properly.”
Father gives them both a curt nod before moving down the line. I see Maxim’s chest puff at the look of approval and resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Viktor,” Father snaps as he approaches his middle son. “What is this mess on your shirt?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Viktor glance down then look back up at Father, his expression guileless and his tone innocent.
“Why, I think it’s blood, Father,” he replies, and I have to resist the urge to laugh.
I see Father bring a hand up to the bridge of his nose and squeeze before looking back at my brother. If any of the rest of us talked back to him like that, we’d get a smack upside the head for it. I think Father understands that Viktor has a sickness in his mind and is more lenient as a result.
“Stop fucking with animals, and go get cleaned up fucking quick before I decide you’re too much of a heathen to eat with the rest of us.”
Viktor gives Father a salute then dashes off out of the house.
Father’s eyes trail after him a moment before stepping up to Dmitri. His eyes soften just slightly as he looks at his youngest son.
“And what about you, boy?”
“I did all my studies with the twi—with Anya and fed the chickens,” he answers, flushing with his near mention of the twins.
“Mmm,” Father replies, a finger on his chin and one eye looking at Dmitri critically. My brothers all have a similar sort of look, but I’ve always thought Dmitri was the most handsome. His blond hair isn’t quite as short as the older boys and a small piece often falls into his face. I’ve always loved the way it falls over his eyes which are so full of love and humor.
He’s the only one of us Father sometimes cracks his hard shell for, at least a tiny bit. To be fair, everyone loves Dmitri.
“You’ll need to take on a few more chores,” he tells him. He doesn’t need to say it, but we all know he means the twins' chores. We all have our place, our household duties. It will be strange adjusting to a new schedule with them gone.
“Yes, sir,” Dmitri murmurs as though he has any other choice. Father gives him a nod, a glint of pride in his eyes. That is until he turns to look at me.
His eyes instantly harden, and I swallow the frog that seems to be stuck in my throat. Father’s step is slow as he moves in front of me. The smell of sweat and cigar smoke permeates off him, so I breath through my mouth to avoid the foul stench.
“Did you complete your chores?” he asks, his tone hard and unforgiving.
“Yes, Daddy,” I respond, keeping my voice as even and respectful as possible. Every so often when I call him that he softens, but this time I know it won’t work. He looks at me a moment longer before stepping away, motioning for me to follow.
“The rest of you don’t fucking move,” he tells them. I dart one glance back to my brothers before I follow him out the back door.
I close the door behind me carefully, remembering another time when the wind slammed it shut and I got in trouble. Father is standing on the deck with his arms crossed, waiting for me. The wind bites through the thin clothes I wear, but I don’t even consider asking to go inside to get a coat.
I step up to him, putting my hands together behind my back and keeping my head down. Father expects us to show respect, especially as a woman. He’s told me I must never look at a man unless invited to do so.
My eyes fixate on the toes of his heavy, steel work boots, scruff marks and stains covering them from years of use.
When he taps his foot, I start to look up at him before remembering to keep my head down. Seconds pass, then more. As the silence continues, I get more and more uncomfortable, finally daring to ask, “You … needed me, Daddy?” My voice sounds hesitant, unsure. I don’t like it, but I can’t help but feel terrified by him. Especially these more private moments.
I hear him exhale loudly through his nose, then he moves so fast, I don’t even see it coming. A hand clamps down on the back of my neck, and I choke in a scream as he pushes my head down, forcing me to my knees.
